The Deserved Malevolence
by kalonrain
Summary: In every cast of characters, there's the odd man out - suspicious, even to the suspects; threatening, even to the threateners. For example, Irene Adler: seductress with an unusual taste, Sherlock Holmes: self-proclaimed sinner, or maybe even Molly Hooper: innocent until proven very, very guilty - but here on Soldier Island, they're all criminals. [And Then There Were None, 1930s]
1. Chapter 1

**THE SUMMONINGS**

In the first-class carriage, Judge Mycroft Wargrave tapped his umbrella on the seat opposite of him idly, looking out the window with an unimpressed air. He raises a cigar to his lips, inhaling the smoke before dropping his hand back down.

A quick glance at his watch told him two more hours until his destination. They were running through Somerset now.

He coughed delicately into his handkerchief, before tucking it back into his waistcoat.

With the sigh of a martyr, he picks up the newspaper lying in the cushioned seat beside him, casting a disinterested eye over the political column, dismissing each one by one. It was the typical nonsense, spineless fools who bend to every complaint the world throws at them. _What the world needs_ , he thinks to himself, _is someone who can lay down the law without mercy or hesitation. Weak imbeciles are the rot in our foundation._

He thinks of the letter in his jacket. Lady Smallwood had written to him, her handwriting atrocious but with some clarity. _Dearest Mycroft...years since we last corresponded...must come to Soldier Island...the most enchanting place...somewhere to clear your head...take the 12:40 from Paddington and meet at Oakbridge, all arranged,_ ended with a signature signed with a flourish typical of his old acquaintance.

Soldier Island, a frequent in the papers. Originally owned by an American millionaire who had a passion for yachting, he had supposedly built a luxurious and modern house on the island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate fact that the new third wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent putting up of the house and island for sale. For a time, it floated around in the advertisement section, untouchable and infamous. Then came the first direct statement in a while, that it had been bought by a Mr. Owen. Soon the gossip writers had started the rumors - _Soldier Island had actually been bought by Miss Sally Donovan, the Hollywood film star! It's a vacation home for the royals! Purchased by the government for war experiments!_ Utter nonsense, of course.

Still, Mycroft was quite looking forward to arriving. He was due for a vacation.

…

In a third-class carriage, Miss Margaret Hooper - dressed smartly in her sensible suit - furrowed her eyebrows as she looked out of the window.

It was unbearably hot in the carriage - as trains always are - but with the thought of the oceans so close, it seemed more the torture.

It was the thought of the seaside that prompted her thoughts to wander back to her letter.

 _Miss Hooper,_

 _I have received your name from the Skilled Women's Agency together with their recommendation. I understand they know you personally. I shall be glad to pay you the salary you ask and shall expect you to take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five pound notes for expenses._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Una Nancy Owen_

The stamped address read _Soldier Island, Devon._

Soldier Island was a name she had heard often, in the papers, but never had she dreamed it in relation to herself.

A sudden bump, and she nearly hits the elderly woman beside her. Fixing her skirt and murmuring apologies, she looks up to see the man - with a cruel, arrogant mouth - in the opposite seat looking calmly at her. Quickly, her eyes fall back down, but her neck flushes as she feels his gaze still resting on her.

…

Sherlock Holmes observes the girl opposite her with his quick-moving eyes, before summing her up in a quick, dismissive thought.

 _Quite attractive - rather schoolmistressy, perhaps…but one that could hold her own. I'd rather like to take her on..._

He frowned. Business was business, and that was what he came to do.

" _Take it or leave it, Captain Holmes."_

" _A hundred guineas, eh?" He spoke casually, as though a hundred guineas were nothing to him. As though he wasn't down to his last solid meal. Sherlock saw though that he did not deceive the man - he seemed to know his situation. In the same tone, "And you can't give me any further information?"_

 _Mr. Stamford shook his head quite positively._ _"No, Captain Holmes, the matter rests there. It is understood by my client that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place. I am able to hand you one hundred guineas in return for which you will travel to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, you will be met there and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch will convey you to Indian Island. There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client."_

" _How long?"_

" _No longer than a week."_

 _Sherlock traces a finger along his jaw, weighing his options. He starts cautiously, "You understand I can't undertake anything - illegal?" He had, in the past - legality not exactly sine qua non - and getting arrested had been a damned nuisance._

 _The man smiles, as though he understands. "If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to withdraw."_

 _Sherlock's own lips part in a grin, more feral and brighter than the man across him. He fancied he would enjoy himself at Soldier Island…_

…

Miss Irene Adler lounged in her velvet carriage, a cigarette hanging delicately from her ivory fingers. Luxury was her closest travel companion, and she took it quite seriously. The train was delightful, but she anticipated more delicious amusements in her coming holiday. _Soldier Island…_

 _Dear Miss Adler,_

 _I do hope you remember me? We were together at Belgravia Guest House in August some years ago, and you'll recall I was quite charmed, as I imagine so many are._

 _I am hosting a sort of party of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. Delicious fun, nudity and gramophones half the night and absurdities like that. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summer holiday on Soldier Island - quite free - as my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th._

 _Yours sincerely -_

And some unintelligible scribble written as if they hadn't an extra second of time in the world. Most of her amusements were like that, it really wasn't a concern. Irene assumed it's another one of her conquests - men are so easily charmed, there's quite the list to choose from.

Soldier Island though, quite the infamous place. She found she was rather looking forward to it. Something to take away from the boredom, perhaps. Irene sighs, glancing out the window. She could do with a new plaything.

…

General Lestrade grimaced, ran a hand through his silvering hair. Soldier Island was really no distance at all, as the crow flies - but damn these slow branch line trains!

He wasn't quite sure who this Owen fellow was, but he'd said he was a friend of a friend, and eager to talk about old times. Lestrade'd enjoy a chat about old times - he'd had the feeling lately that fellows were shy of talking to him - that damned rumor. Nearly fifteen years ago, it had been, and still it followed him…

He was sure it was just a silly feeling. People fancied silly things all the times, fancied a fellow was looking at you funnily -

But Soldier Island - the welcome distraction of distractions. He'd like to see if there was any truth to this talk of Sally Donovan, though if he had been invited, he supposed not.

An hour left. His knee bounced up and down impatiently. He'd like to be off this damn train…

…

Dr. Watson steered his Morris steadily across Salisbury Plain. He felt wide awake, unusual for him. Nowadays, it was dreary consulting rooms, listening to the crying and complaints of perfectly healthy people.

Of course, he had a lot to thank them for. Those perfectly healthy people are the ones responsible for making him a very respected doctor. Pleasant and soothing words to a few women with power and position - attracted to his good looks and pleased with his diagnosis, and word got around. _You ought to try Dr. John Watson - quite a young man and handsome, too - but so clever - Janine had all sorts of people for years and he put his finger on it at once!_ So he ought to thank them, for securing him a comfortable, relatively wealthy life. Even if he was so damn tired all the time.

He supposed he was getting a vacation now, though it was rather just another cushy job. The letter had been rather vague in its terms - but then again, rich people usually are. Of course, there had been nothing very vague in the accompanying cheque - these Owens must be absolutely rolling in money. And just to check on some fussy lady's nerves - John'd seen it often enough, just a case of boredom.

" _A slightly uncommon case of -_ some long word _\- nothing at all serious - but it just needs putting right. A simple treatment."_

Lucky he'd managed to pull it together, after that business ten years ago. He grimaced, and his hands shook a little on the wheel. But it had been a near thing, he'd nearly - nearly fell apart there.

A ear-splitting honk nearly had him running off the side of the road, and then an enormous Dalmain car is rushing past him at nearly eighty miles an hour. Young fools, tearing up the country roads. Damn him!

…

Sebastian Wilkes, roaring down into Mere, thought, _The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. Pretty hopeless driving in England anyway...not like France where you can_ really _let it out…_

Should he stop for a drink, or push on? Nevermind, heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. Fizzing hot day.

This Soldier Island ought to be rather good fun - if the weather lasted. _But who were these Owens?_ he wondered. Rich and stinking, probably. And he supposed there'd be some girls at this house party.

Coming out of the hotel, he stretched leisurely, yawned, and looked up at the blue sky as only a careless young man can. Out of the corner of his eye, several women looked at him admiring. They ought to - six feet of lean body, dark hair, tanned face, crystal blue eyes.

He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and errand boys jumped for safety, and he laughed at them joyously.

Sebastian Wilkes proceeded on his triumphal progress.

…

Mr. Anderson sat in the slow train from Plymouth. He glanced at the old man across from him uncomfortably, who had just dropped off to sleep. He directs his attention back to his small notebook, pencilling in words carefully.

 _That's the lot_ , he thought to himself. _Irene Adler, Margaret Hooper, Dr. Watson, Sebastian Wilkes, Judge Mycroft Wargrave, Sherlock Holmes, General Lestrade, and the manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Hudson._ He frowned. _Odd lot, aren't they._

He stood up and scrutinized himself in the glass. A rather scraggly brown beard, with two twins streaks of grey. Two closely set grey eyes. Anderson doesn't look in mirrors, much. Not a lot to look at.

"Maybe a major," he murmurs to himself. "No, there's that old military gent. He'd spot me at once." He scratches at his beard, thinking with a comical expression. "South Africa! That's my line. None of these people having anything to do with Africa, as far as I know…"

The train stopped with a sudden lurch, and the old man in the corner wakes up with a wheeze. "This is where I get out," he grumbles. His gnarled hands fumbled with the window, so Anderson helps him.

The old man stands in the doorway. He blinks blearily, but stares steadily at Anderson. He shifts, uncomfortable.

"Watch and pray," he intones, feebly. "Watch and pray. The day of judgement is at hand."

He collapses through the doorway and onto the platform. From his level below he looks up at Anderson with immense dignity and says, "I'm talking to you, young man! The day of judgement is close at hand."

Settling back into his seat, Anderson shakes his head amusedly. _He's nearer the day of judgement than I am._

But there, as it happens, was where he was wrong.

In fact, they all were.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chaaaaaapter two! I've been rewatching the miniseries - breathtaking, seriously, watch it - and I had promised myself that I wouldn't upload this until I updated both of my other on-going fics, but I am extremely weak.**

 **To my reviewer, Percy James Frost: I'm actually not sure! Of course, you know how it ends, so it would be pointless in the end but I wouldn't mind adding in a ship.**

 **A tiny little filler chapter - next one is where all the action is going to be - I'm reeeeally excited about it. Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

 **THE ARRIVAL**

…

 _A man stands in a velvet booth, surrounded by lights and a large microphone, hanging from the center of the ceiling. He clutches in his hand a paper, with hastily scribbled words occupying the space._

 _He looks up from the sheet, to his left. "And this - this is for a play? In the West End?"_

 _He must have received an answer, for he continues. "And will I be credited in the program?"_

 _A low murmur of a voice in reply, and the man nods attentively, apparently satisfied. The red light blinks - once, twice, then steady._

" _Ladies and gentlemen…"_

…

A small group of people stand in uncertainty - though some less than others. The judge remains stately, as his job requires, with the umbrella as powerful as his gavel in the courtroom. He manages a kindly if not slightly insincere smile in Margaret Hooper's direction, but can hardly summon the energy for little else. Irene Adler perches herself on a stone ledge - nevermind the wind and oncoming storm - head tilted, observing the company with a coy grin on her scarlet lips. When she once again lifts a cigarette to her lips, she catches Mr. Anderson staring, and throws a wink at him. The poor man flushes, looking away quickly.

They were on a stoned area in a fishing village, near a rustic dock. Introductions had been attempted and quickly fallen into silence, so the former participants were doing their best to avoid eye contact. It was clear a rather bad storm was coming in soon - the wind was harsh and stung salty on their skin, and the clouds hung heavy and gloomy in the sky. Margaret shivered, tucking her hands into her folded arms.

Sherlock Holmes stood separate from the group, observing the people silently. His eyes dart from person to person curiously, cataloging every scrap of information he can collect. He analyzes Miss Margaret, curving his lips up into an arrogant smirk when she glances back at him. She flinches slightly, recognizing him from the train, and she turns away from him - initiating a quick conversation with General Lestrade.

"Margaret Hooper," she introduces herself.

The silver-haired man looks rather surprised to be addressed, but he smiled kindly back at her. "Greg Lestrade - or General Lestrade, really. Either suits me fine." Scrambling to reciprocate, he comes up with the original, "Er, coming to Soldier Island for a holiday?"

Her lips curve up into a gentle smile, reassured by the seemingly gentlemanlike man. "I'm the Owen's secretary."

His eyebrows shot up, interested in this information. "Oh? And what are they like? This whole business is damned mysterious, I'll say that." He winces - rather uncertain whether he should have revealed how little he knows of his host.

Margaret frowned, her brow puckering worriedly. "I couldn't say, I'm afraid," she murmured. "I've only just been hired. I rather was hoping you could tell me something."

It was the obvious truth that for curiosity and perhaps lack of entertainment there were a certain amount of people listening in on the conversation - and upon hearing this rather uncommon and unnerving piece of information, the preceding reacted in the following way: Irene Adler raised a perfect eyebrow carefully, Judge Mycroft Wargrave furrowed his brow quickly before smoothing it back into an impassive expression, and Mr. Anderson coughed uncomfortably. In truth, all of this company had assumed the others knew their elusive hosts, and had hoped to conceal that they, in fact, did not. When confronted with the notion that at least two of their fellow guests were not at the very least acquainted, if not intimately, they suddenly found themselves quite unsettled.

The pair exchanged worried glances, before turning away from each other, an uncomfortable feeling of unease settling in their stomachs.

Sherlock watched the conversation curiously and then her for a moment more, his hands tucked into his pockets, before looking away, a small frown playing on his lips. He lifts a finger to rub along his jaw, mulling over what he just heard. His head turns sharply from his thoughts when he sees something out of the corner of his eye.

Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. It appeared and moved with such speed it seemed an apparition - which had a near paralyzing effect on the attempts at warmth from the group. At the wheel was Sebastian Wilkes, hair blown back with the wind, sharpening the appearance of his handsome features. In the light from the dying sun, he seemed something more than mortal.

Obligingly, he presses the horn with a knowing grin, and a grand roar of sound echoes from the rocks of the bay. The car skids to a stop in front of the silent company, and no words are uttered as he steps out cheerfully, closing the door with a grandiose motion. Dr. Watson, recognizing the car, scowled a little. His arms crossed instinctively in front of his chest.

At that moment, an elderly man with a kind face steps forward. "Soldier Island?" he asks, a heavy accent breaking his words up.

Eight voices give their consent - and then immediately after give quick surreptitious glances at one another, with the notable exceptions of Sebastian Wilkes, Irene Adler, and Judge Mycroft Wargrave. For quite different reasons, they never do anything so unstylish.

He grins toothlessly. "Right, m' name's Jeff Hope. If you'd all make your way to my boat, we best be off." A hand wave in the vague direction of a rather skeptical looking boat.

The group obliges him, picking up their cases dutifully and following him across the rocky shore. Illuminated by a sun dying behind approaching clouds, they could see the outline of a magnificent island. Softly, the collective drew in a breath, momentarily stunned by the sight.

Sebastian Wilkes whistled appreciatively. "A goddamn sight, ain't it." He grinned around, but was met only with rather stony faces. _Not much fun, are they._ Sebastian shrugged his broad shoulders, eyeing the woman on his side. _At least that dark-haired chit looks like she go for a turn._

"It's a long way out," Margaret breathed, a little surprised. She stood watching the shore a moment before turning at the hand coming to touch her arm.

The other men stepped into the boat, while Sherlock and Judge Mycroft extending their hands to the two ladies. Miss Adler accepted with a frankly disarmingly charming smile, but with no effect on the judge, by the unimpressed look on his face. Sherlock's hand was offered to Miss Margaret with an impassive expression, which she took hesitantly, sliding her slim hand into his. She gathered the fabric of her skirt in her gloved fingers, lifting the hem enough to only just graze the rough wood as she stepped lightly over the side. She sat, arranging her skirts neatly, directly opposite Mr. Holmes and adjacent to Miss Adler.

Mr. Hope began his rituals for getting the boat out to sea. The ride wasn't pleasant, with enough roughness to turn poor Mr. Anderson rather green. Soon a gloomy fog coats their skin, obscuring any sight of the coast they had just left behind. The waters beneath them were thrown into choppy waves by the wind, churning the boat side to side. It whipped the hair from Miss Margaret's tidy bun, casting stray strands across her neck. Sea water sprayed occasionally from its slaps against the hull, but the dignified English women remained unconcerned and the men remained unaware.

The boat crossed the churning sea roughly, skidding over the bumps. The island loomed closer and closer, until the occupants could make out a large house, sitting on the pinnacle. Ragged cliffs from a small shoreline separated them, isolating the house from the coast. The sand was darkened with the water, carving a harsh line in the smooth shore. The house itself was white, and a uncommonly modern design - a pleasing sight that one would usually associate with the gossip; actresses and millionaires and such.

Margaret glanced up at the darkening sky. Seagulls circled over the house, tumbling from their orbits before climbing back up, cawing frantically. She nearly shivered.

The boat pulled up onto the shore, shifting unevenly on the sand. The ladies were escorted out carefully by General Lestrade and Dr. Watson, while Sebastian Wilkes hopped out, adjusting his suit coat with a very satisfied air. Sherlock examined the island as usual with critical eyes - skimming over the terrain systematically and Anderson blustered out a weak "Nothing like Africa, eh?" Sherlock's bright eyes shot quickly to examine the man, before flicking back to the two dark figures approaching. Dr. Watson eyed Anderson doubtful.

Irene approaches Sherlock from behind, brushing her shoulder against his, drawing his attention away from the strangers. She glances up at him coyly with dark eyes. "A lovely sight, no? The kind of place where all _sorts_ of naughtiness could happen." She smiles up at the house, relishing the sight.

Sherlock was in no humour to oblige her. "I suppose you rather think you'd get away with it," he replies, coldly.

Her lips curve into her trademark smirk, unconcerned with his unfriendly manner - in fact, she seemed almost encouraged. "I always do, handsome." She tilts her head, calculatingly, settling her eyes on his. "And I rather think you do too, Mr. Holmes."

He jerks his head away from her quickly, staring determinedly ahead.

The two figures had made their way down the cliffs, coming to a stop in front of the crowd. It was a man and a woman, dressed sensibly in black staff attires. The woman, rather fragile looking but with a kindly face stood slightly behind the man. Margaret quite quickly found she didn't like his look - like a man forcing himself to appear more than he is.

"I'm Mr. Hudson, the butler," he called. Any half-hearted attempts at conversation were stilled, rather grateful for the interruption. "Welcome to Soldier Island," Mr. Hudson nods his head politely to the crowd. "This is my wife, Mrs. Hudson. Cook, and lady's maid to the women during their stay."

The woman ducks her head a little at the introduction, and stays silent. Margaret examines her a little curiously, seeing the nervous way she conducts herself.

Mr. Hudson continues in a detached tone, "If you'd all follow me." He turns his body, gesturing to the house behind him with a tight smile. They oblige him, each dutifully picking their case up - with the exception of Miss Irene, who left it on the shore to be carried for her, which Dr. Watson did grudgingly - and beginning a steep climb up the rocky cliff, leaving winding trails of footprints in the sand behind.

For a moment, Margaret glances towards the shore, down at the rolling waves crashing on the sand and she remembers, what it's like, to be under those waves, a scarlet against dazzling blue, a bright sun overhead but she's sinking - falling - _can't breathe_ -

A steady hand on her back from a concerned General Lestrade, and she's jerking herself from the vision, and walking quickly away.

From the mainland, they were nothing but specks, blending into the mass of shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

**THE SETTING**

Mansions, in particular _white_ mansions, always have the distinct feature of being not quite like an _ordinary_ building with an _ordinary_ atmosphere, but a culture and presence unlike no other. The proof of audacious amounts of money all concentrated into stately walls and marble floors takes on its own nuanced sentience, this house in particular reminiscent of a dignified and courtly senior scholar or judge - it seems to be always watching, and silently condemning your every action. Indeed, there is a reason white means money. This the Owens' home emulated.

The group had traveled up the steep shore and cliff, awkwardly with their heavy suitcases. The island was rather a strange blend of beach and cliffs, cliffs and grass, until it smoothed out into a vast flatland unbroken by anything other than the modern, ethereal mansion.

Grand stairs waited patiently at the end of a well worn path, where once mounted a visitor would find themselves on a charming deck that ran the course of the entire perimeter. Looking a little further on his right, General Lestrade noted a very pleasant looking tea table and deck chairs, and imagined this trip would be very enjoyable indeed.

"Looks like that damned White House," Anderson says, looking up at the building with unconcealed awe. He wasn't wrong - in fact the assessment was quite accurate save for a few architectural differences, but already such a dislike for the man had settled in Sherlock that he couldn't help but take a dig.

"I'd be surprised to hear you've ever seen America, Mr. Anderson, I thought even they have a higher standard than that." He doesn't bother turning his head to look at the man, who is undoubtedly glowering at him, his cheeks aflame.

Anderson wouldn't comment again - not after _that_ little exchange, and so not another word is uttered as the procession continues, rather drearily up to the great door. Caws of seagulls cut through the silence in a lonesome call, and a wind from the east blows the skirts of the women haphazardly. The butler stands rigid and tall.

Margaret's pumps make a strange - and really rather grand - sound as she steps through the heavy, black wooden door, though it quickly dissipates in the large space of just the entrance hall. Elegant rooms stretch for miles and miles when she turns her dark head curiously to the sides, fine furniture and old books and chandeliers catching her eyes. In the hallway, the floor is a strange dark green marble, extending into a grand staircase for the second floor apartments.

The guests were pleased by the charming - though the word implies a more quaint setting than was actually supplied - accommodations. Sebastian Wilkes declared himself rather chuffed, confidently pushing back his coat to settle his hands in his pockets.

Leaning against the right, white wall is a rather peculiar sight: a gong, with its mallet lying on its side beside it. Used to call for dinner perhaps, a rather literal interpretation of the phrase "ringing the dinner bell". It was quaint, if not a little strange, adding to the whole exoticness of the whole affair despite still being very firmly English.

The guests did their best to absorb these peculiar details, in a vain attempt to more clearly ascertain the identity of their hosts. The charade of perfect confidence required some keen observation.

Mr. Hudson turns neatly on his heel - a practiced motion, of one with many years bred for service and many years living in service, though he is not so unprofessional as to seem tired or condescending when doing so - to face the solemn party, while the Mrs. Hudson stands almost timidly by his side. "Welcome to the Owens' home," is his stiff and thoroughly customary welcome, "I trust you'll find everything enjoyable. The dinner bell rings at six, with my own wife Mrs. Hudson as the cook during your stay."

Mrs. Hudson nods her head with a kind smile, and Sherlock eyes her speculatively. If there was a source of information to be found, the servants are the real founts for whispered secrets and blunt truths.

Sensing a breaking up of the company is imminent, General Lestrade steps forward hastily enough to be conveyed as awkward, his greying hair glinting from the crystal chandelier. "Er - Hudson, is it? - when can we be expecting to meet our hosts?"

Sebastian Wilkes passes by comfortably, tipping his hat at the butler unconcernedly. "A stiff gin and tonic in my room, Hudson," he calls, not caring a whit about interrupting their conversation. He breezes as only a young man can, as only a handsome man would. Doctor Watson scowls at him behind his back.

"Very good, sir," Hudson replies dutifully, and then turns back to address the general. "We should be a full house by tonight, sir."

Margaret - or Molly, as she rarely uses but contrarily prefers - takes that as her cue, stepping forward in line with Lestrade. Foolishly - and she knows it is foolish - she feels the most comfortably around him, the safest, because he is the only one who has properly introduced himself to her. Sherlock's eyes follow her as she moves, the kind of gaze in which one is listening intently, as they always do. "Did Mrs. Owens leave any instructions for me?" she asks, feeling that if she wants to see a fraction of the promised pay then she ought to step up and assume her duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. "I am the secretary."

"Only to ensure that you were comfortable and had everything you wished for, Miss Hooper," Hudson replied steadily. He's not a likeable man, one to stiff and rigid to make you feel _truly_ at home, and the way he brushes things off is maddening. Every question glances.

Molly frowned, the ends of her delicate mouth ticking downwards. What a strange request; she's a servant as much as the married butler and cook, it's only right she's put to work if they are to pay her for it, is it not? These Owens _are_ strange folk.

The butler has continued, regardless of any misgivings she now has. "Now if the gentlemen would follow me, Mrs. Hudson will escort the ladies."

Dr. Watson refuses to indenture himself any further by lifting Miss Adler's suitcase a second time, instead he leaves it, stubbornly staring pointedly ahead as he follows the butler up the carpeted steps. The men follow him obediently; Anderson, the general, and Sherlock Holmes, the latter turning to look over his shoulder and down at the pair left at the base. The loss of her original bellboy doesn't bother Miss Adler - she's always been rather adaptable like that - who ascends the stairs with a hand loosely trailing the polished wood railing, her delicate lips parted in carefully manufactured wonder over a cool interior, leaving behind the lonely black case. Mrs. Hudson picks it up, struggling with the weight as the small, elderly woman she is, and Molly comes up from behind, taking the case smoothly from her in a practiced motion. Mrs. Hudson's shoulders fall in relief, and an affectionate pat on her hand is accompanied with a wavering, "Oh, you're a dear."

Molly feels an odd wave of sympathy.

The judge had lingered at the base, having had his case brought up by the too-kind-to-refuse general. The sharp angles of his well-tailored suit looked all the cleaner in the entrance, as he looked up and around with his face tilted upwards, his expression a neutral, unrevealing surface. Molly paused at the base, and Mycroft offered his arm to her like a gentleman, and she took it graciously, holding both her small, modest bag with Miss Adler's overflowing in one hand. They processed solemnly up the stairs arm and arm, his darkish-ginger hair reflecting in the light, and her elegant twist letting loose falling strands against her slender neck.

The top of the staircase and subsequent luxurious walk opened up to a long hallway, running left to right of the pair. Innovative light fixtures of twisted metals burned brightly at consistent intervals, guards to the countless doors in this home - the elders judged it with a suspicious eye, while the younger party grinned at the clever additions. It gave the grand hall a friendly air, brightening warmly the elegantly green carpet, a luxury rarely seen.

Each were ushered into their own rooms to get settled, and soon Molly found herself in a comfortable room of a rich blue and dark wood. It's far more than she ever expected as a simple secretary, and she wonders yet again what sort of folk these Owens are. Not ones for much propriety, she supposes.

The large windows on the far side of her room are covered with curtains, and when she crosses the bed to pull back the offenders, a stunning view of the coast greets her. It's a long way off, but she can see the rocky edge of the cliff, and the water that lies just beyond it. The incoming fog of the day obscures the mainland, but the turquoise endlessness of the ocean is still apparent, its restlessness prominent.

Molly sets her case in the corner, near the full length mirror and wardrobe, and it's only then that she notices a framed poem on the wall, perched neatly next to the fireplace mantel, next to a clock with a charming engraving of a bear. It's bordered with stamped merry springs of flora and ferns, and the poem itself is written in swooping, delicate cursive:

 _Ten little soldier boys went out the dine;_

 _One choked himself and then there were nine._

 _Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;_

 _One overslept and then there were eight._

 _Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon;_

 _One said he'd stay there and then there were seven._

 _Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;_

 _One chopped in halves and then there were six._

 _Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;_

 _A bumblebee stung one and then there were five._

 _Five little soldier boys going in for law;_

 _One got into Chancery and then there were four._

 _Four little soldier boys going out to sea;_

 _A red herring swallowed one and then there were three._

 _Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo;_

 _A big bear hugged one and then there were two._

 _Two little soldier boys playing in the sun;_

 _One got burnt up and then there was one._

 _One little soldier boy left all alone;_

 _He went out and hanged himself and then there were none._

It's a familiar children's poem - though the subject matter is notably grimmer than most fairy tales. _How peculiar_ , thought Molly. _A nursery rhyme in the guest apartments?_

There was a strange feeling to this grand, spectacle of a house. The truth was that she was simply out of her element among this company. She felt particularly uncomfortable in her room, too large and drafty to suit the simple secretary and governess. They aren't proper people, if bred with any sort of decency - Americans then, if she had to guess. She hadn't the faintest ideas of their identity or person, and the other guests are keeping quite mum, when she presumed to talk to them.

A gong rang in the distance, and Molly started, realizing that her room had darkened considerably with the setting of the sun. Distantly, she could hear doors opening and closing, and steady footsteps on carpet; the others had seemed to employ their time better, and Molly had yet to change. A simple, blue dress was arranged, and she made her way to the dining room.

She wasn't alone in straggling however; Mr. Holmes was lounging lazily at the foot of the stairs, having changed into his crisp dinner jacket. His arm rests on the polished wood, his black curls facing her only. A fine crystal glass dangled from his musician fingers, half filled with liquid amber.

Molly hesitates, her foot hovering above the next step. Sherlock wouldn't miss the misstep, the drop in rhythm, indeed he'd seemed to be waiting on it.

"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Hooper." His dark voice only grew in the marble room; she resumed her steps.

"Money not very well spent," she replied, her voice too delicate to stand any taller. Molly could only remember his gaze on her legs on the train. "I'm only a secretary, after all."

Sherlock turns to look upon her, the planes of his face sharp in the hall. His eyes glinted a strange wicked blue-green. She hadn't intended the ice in her voice, but it curves a smirk on his face.

A chilling calm overcomes her, and she holds his stare.

Sherlock releases an irritated breath, rolling his feline eyes. "Al _right_ , Miss Hooper, if it makes you feel better: I'm _sorry_ for staring."

She won't respond, he can see that in her. Sherlock sweeps a grand - if not mocking - hand out in front of him, and she walks to the dining room, uncomfortably aware of his stare on her back.

Everybody was already seated, and Molly hesitated at the door; these were not her people, not the crowd she was made to associate with. They were above her, and she beneath - she equaled none in rank. The two remaining seat and the expectant looks from the guests compelled her to take one - not any facsimile of courage, and she had soon been served the first course, along with the others. Sherlock Holmes sat opposite.

General Lestrade asked her how-do-you-do, and the doctor - Watson, he introduced himself - inquired after her room (yes, she was quite charmed, and no, she _hadn't_ seen quite so much marble and fine carpeting), Anderson remarked on the view, and everyone agreed that they were generally charmed by the entire home. Introductions that were still necessary were made, and by the time they were all at least acquaintances and the conversation had just begun to stall, the first course had come out by the hands of the capable Mr. Hudson.

 _What an odd group of people_ , Molly thought to herself, not for the first time. _A doctor, a general, a businessman from South Africa, a judge, a socialite, a captain, a rake, a butler, a cook and a secretary. The start of a rather bad joke._

As if Sebastian Wilkes was thinking the same, he looks around the table with an unsatisfied quirk of his mouth. He's been spending the last quarter hour of mundane conversation blowing out forceful sighs and taking enthusiastic refuge in his liquor, foregoing the traditional red. "I'm sorry, but I _was_ promised a party - and besides the de _licious_ Miss Adler right here, Sherlock Holmes who clearly doesn't like me, and perhaps the secretary over there if she'd let me have an hour or so at her - you lot don't look like much."

Molly flushed in embarrassment, Captain Holmes rolled his eyes in clear disinterest.

"As was I, handsome." Irene lifts a cigarette to her lips, exhaling the billowing smoke with a small smile, a sigh of content. A small amount of resentment curled unpleasantly in Molly's throat, wondering if the woman could ever appear inelegant. "The company is rather dry - I suppose we were both cheated."

"I could say the same for you," grumbled Anderson insincerely, considering the appreciative glances he had been sending Miss Adler from their first acquaintance.

Everyone agreed that the Mrs. Hudson was an excellent cook, and to send their compliments in loud enough voices as to make it quite impossible for Mr. Hudson to miss. He nodded back his stiff affirmation of hearing which rather made the party doubt if he would be complementary enough to the Mrs. - it really was a rather pleasing meal. No bother, she is just the cook.

The conversation turned speculative.

"Did anyone see that odd ditty in their room? Read it and thought I might've been hallucinating." Anderson made a clumsy attempt at a chortle.

"It's a child's poem, Mr. Anderson, not an apparition," replied Judge Mycroft, taking a sip from his wine glass. He looked rather unimpressed.

General Lestrade pauses to hum in agreement, only half-listening to the conversation while choosing to focus on the excellent meal. "Oh, yes - a queer poem, isn't it?" He resumes his eating, before pausing and adding gruffly, "Though are we quite sure it isn't 'hung'?"

"If you had a hold on decent secondary school grammar, then yes, we'd be _quite_ sure," remarked Captain Holmes mockingly. He hadn't bothered to look up.

General Lestrade could only glare in response.

In a half-hearted attempt to rekindle any sort of civilized conversation when the friction seems to be building, Dr. Watson says, "Still, it's strange, isn't it? Rather morbid?" He casts a glance around the moody table - Miss Adler, who seems to be enjoying her wine and cigarette though looking rather bored; Judge Mycroft, who doesn't much bother to participate; - and seizes upon the most approachable individual. "Miss Hooper! Do you have the same lines in your room?"

She smiles at him gently, appreciating his frantic efforts, and replies quietly, "I do, Dr. Watson. I was never much preoccupied with it as a child, but reading ' _He went out and hanged himself and then there were none'_ now was rather startling."

"I hadn't thought you much the type, Miss Hooper," commented Captain Holmes, swirling his wine in his glass. He is reclined lazily in his chair, his crisp tails a contrast and complement to the white of the tablecloth. When Molly merely looks at him, he clarifies cooly, "For startling."

Her brow furrows delicately. "I think choking, and hangings, and deaths quite enough to startle one. I suspect you've had a rather different experience, Captain."

Sherlock stares at her, eyes too knowing, too shrewd. "I suspect you _haven't_."

The others could only hope to wonder what he was implying, their own conversations stalling to gape at the more scandalous. He kept his gaze leveled at her, a slight smirk traveling across his lips. Her thumb traced anxiously across her palm and her heartbeat thudded in her ears, but she kept her posture rigid and her stare cool.

"My, my," drawled Irene, her bored eyes finally sparkling with some interest. "Perhaps there _is_ some chemistry in this company."


End file.
